Lightning's Nature
by TakesTwoToTango
Summary: Mustang has returned, and a new, even heavier weight has been settled on his shoulders. The hero is surprised at the loyalty from his friends that he'd left behind. Especially Riza. Perhaps the time had come to make amends. And find the truth. RoyXRiza
1. Prologue: A Hero's Return

Wow, it's good to be back

I've been away from FanFiction for a very, _very_ long time, and I miss it like a severed limb! So here's a little intro back into the world of fan fiction. Some Roy x Riza action, because I think they are one of the cutest couples of ALL time! FullMetal Alchemist belongs to Hiromu Arakawa, and I merely bow before her genius.

Lightning's Nature

Prologue: A Hero's Return

Invasion Day, the day metal creatures descended from the sky to wreak havoc across Amestris, border to border. It was labeled in the government files as Case 279, and it left a lasting impact of Amestris. The event had shaken the wounded, confused country to its very core, and it was all the officials could do to maintain order and protect their country from neighboring invaders. But the beaurecrats sitting in positions of power couldn't handle the reverberations, and so called on the hero that had miraculously appeared amidst the chaos of Case 279. Well, the one still on this side of the Gate.

Besides, Roy Mustang was far better equipped to rule the mess left in Fuhrer Bradley's wake than even the great Full Metal Alchemist, Edward Elric. No, the Flame Alchemist, restored of his title, watch, and rank—improved by two levels, of course—should prove to be a much better leader. The only thing left to do was to inform the Major General of his latest promotion.


	2. Ch 1: Fitting

OK, now to the real beginning

Remember, Mustang thinks he's merely being summoned home as a Major General, nothing more. Wait till the bricks really begin to fall. Let's see if our Mustang still remembers how to dance. And I know that the uniforms were one of the things that set FMA apart, but I felt that a change would help in the whole story line. Think of James Bond (Pierce Brosnan era) when he gets wrangled into wearing his dress uniform. Yeah, kinda like that.

Lightning's Nature

Ch 1: Fitting

Major General Mustang strode through the halls of Central HQ, excitement and, heaven forbid, nervousness winding coils of tension through his shoulders and back. The scar over his decimated eye tingled, and in half his sight, Roy could see the first time he'd passed through these walls. He'd been a wide-eyed Major, set to head off to Ishbal with his watch still shining and new, the certificate with his title still crisp.

His life had turned a bloody, unexpected sharp turn left after that tour of duty. Yet here he was, somewhat unwilling, mildly amused, plenty cocky, and every inch confused. Why was this happening? What could they possibly want from him? His old plans aside, Mustang had no expectations that this windfall of good luck would last. But, before it changed, he wanted to see his old people again. Falman, Breda, Fuery, Havock. Hawkeye.

_Steady, Roy_, he said to himself, catching his reminiscing before it even began. _No time to get sentimental when you still have no idea as to the layout of the battlefield_.

As Mustang made his way to the council hall, a young female lieutenant in a black uniform he'd never seen before flagged him down with flighty, hurried gestures.

"Excuse me, Major General, but if you would come with me, please." The petite brunette flashed him a sunny, slightly terrified smile. Instinctively cocking a brow hidden by his patch and turning his head slightly in a subtle gesture of suspicion, Mustang gestured the young woman to lead the way after a moment of scrutiny. She seemed thankful that he hadn't argued—in fact, she almost wilted from pure relief as she hurried down a side corridor into a brightly lit room that had once been a briefing room, if memory served him correctly. Female personnel swarmed everywhere, and Mustang noticed that some of the women were wearing the new black uniforms like his guide. They were nothing like the personnel uniforms, and were much more form-fitting and clean-lined. Well, no complaints there.

Glancing down to query about this development, Mustang saw that she was resting very light fingertips on his arm in a bid for attention—an attempt that Mustang never would have noticed but for the fact that he was looking directly at her.

"If you would kindly take off your uniform, Sir," she said in a nervous, soft voice after clearing her throat.

"As pretty as you are, darling, I just don't think it would be right to rush our relationship that fast." A brilliant blush burned across her cheekbones, and Mustang bit the inside of his cheek to swallow the chuckle that bubbled at the shocked expression on her face as her small mouth gaped slightly.

"Unlike you, Major General, Lieutenant Surrey's intentions are completely honorable. We merely want to get you outfitted in your new uniform before you meet the council." Mustang froze as the voice slid around him like rich, golden wine. She had approached him from his blind side, damnably clever creature that she was.

He slid his eye over first, but, of course, Mustang couldn't see her until he moved his head.

Riza Hawkeye.

She was looking rather resplendent in the sleek black trousers, a tailored coat that ended a quarter length down her thigh, and bright colonel bars of her new uniform. A hat was tucked under her right arm, its lines much cleaner than the baggy old version, leaving her mahogany eyes unshaded and her gold hair exposed.

Mustang valiantly struggled against the smile that threatened to light his face as he slid his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. He was so focused on the unexpected arrival of Hawkeye that he didn't sense Lieutenant Surrey melting away.

"Fancy duds, Colonel." Her russet eyes warmed, but her mouth held firm. Her mystery was like an old wind, one Mustang had long ago forgotten how to hold strong against it. It would take some quick relearning if he wasn't going to get blown over. He jingled the officer bars in his pocket to distract himself.

"I'm glad you think so, General, as you'll be wearing them soon enough. Hopefully you're still about the same size you were the last time you were fitted." Mustang shifted his gaze from the quiet curving of Hawkeye's lips to the bustle around him. He had changed, quite a bit. Five inches off the waist, and thirty pounds dropped from a neat 5'9" frame could leave a man looking gaunt. And Mustang didn't need anyone to tell him that he looked very gaunt.

Food had lost almost all appeal to him since his posting in the North, and such grief-laden tendencies were hard to overcome. He'd already gained back five of those lost pounds since his return to Central from the Drachma border, but Mustang doubted he'd ever weigh in at 170 pounds again.

Hawkeye shifted, and Mustang caught the bulge of pistols under her jacket that broke the clean line of her waist. Some things never changed, and, for that, Mustang was eternally grateful.

"Well, then," he murmured, shrugging out of his jacket. "Let's see just how nice these new uniforms are."

For all his earlier joking and the young lieutenant's innocence, the women were surprisingly brutal. Stripping him of his coat, undershirt, pants, and boots with impersonal, almost rough hands, they handed him loose white linen pants and a featureless white shirt that he could wear while they gathered his uniform. He was firmly guided onto a stool where he could wait—yet remain available for their every fitting whim. It was nothing like his last fitting, which consisted of a gruff, overweight man asking him whether he was a large, medium, or small and plopping a folded uniform and boots into his arms. The women chattered like summer birds, and Mustang could have cried with gratefulness when Hawkeye pressed a glass of water into his hands. The headache brewing behind Mustang's injured eye made him want to grind his head against a stone, but he merely drank the water like a camel and waited for the women to stop talking and actually need him.

The two didn't say much—what was there to say? They merely stayed as they were, Hawkeye no more than an arm's length away. Always within reach, always at his side. When the women finally decided they needed him, Mustang was yanked off his feet and hurriedly undressed and redressed in his in-progress uniform. A lesser man would have blushed, but Mustang smirked at the attention. He noticed Hawkeye raise a brow, and couldn't help the widening of his smile.

She cleared her throat, and Mustang returned his attention back to the woman poking and prodding him into the correct position. Hawkeye strode closer, and Mustang got the distinct feeling she was inspecting him with all the impersonal interest of a buyer interested in a rather interesting horse. Her left hand rested on her chin, while the same elbow was propped on the arm wrapped around her waist. Mustang felt the smirk on his face die.

Hawkeye looked up after circling him like a bird of prey, her eyes unhappy.

"You've lost weight." Mustang shrugged. It was a defensive reaction, but one still tightly ingrained.

"Can't say I noticed." Pathetic. He didn't need the speculative look in Hawkeye's eyes to tell him that. Why in the world was it so difficult to get back into the rhythm that had earned him the reputation that had survived even the tattering effects of exile? Self-imposed that it was.

Hawkeye made a non-committal sound, and strode to the woman who seemed to be the head seamstress.

"Take in the waist a couple inches. And lengthen the trousers. The general has longer legs than you think." She was talking as if he wasn't there. Mustang tried to not grind his teeth. Hawkeye always knew that pissed him off. It wasn't above her to purposely rile him as a challenge.

After an interminable fitting—and sporting a few pinpricks—Mustang was shepherded out of the fitting room, Hawkeye close on his heels. Clad in the new uniform, Mustang had to admit that he was impressed. The jacket and pants were pressed linen, a vibrant royal blue stripe running down the sides of his legs. Instead of his scuffed boots, Mustang had been presented with dress shoes that shined with an almost unearthly vigor. His undershirt was replaced by a clean, soft cotton shirt that was very striking against the rich black of the uniform.

Mustang had to admit that this change was a good one. Hawkeye paused a moment, her eyes running over his critically. Whatever she saw must have satisfied her, for she nodded and set off at a bristling pace. The woman always did walk too damn fast. Mustang caught up with as little obvious effort as possibly, and the two strode down the hall. It occurred to Mustang after about 100 feet that she was _racing_ him. There was absolutely no expression on Hawkeye's face, but Mustang could have _sworn_ that he saw a competitive glimmer in her eyes. The two stayed right at each other's side, neither going faster than a wicked walk, doggedly determined to outdistance the other without breaking into a run. They passed countless people as they marched to the council hall, and Mustang caught a couple strange expressions as the Major General Mustang and Colonel Hawkeye blazed down the hallways.

It was growing harder and harder to hold back the laugh clogging his throat, and as the door to the council's chamber drew in sight, he could feel the pressure rising through his throat. Finally, the race ended, and it would have taken a photo finish to determine the winner. Each stood stiffly by the door, trying to scold their faces into impassive coolness. Both failed rather severely. Biting her lip so hard Mustang wondered if it would bleed, Hawkeye presented a hand. He took it with more warmth than he expected out of himself, and the handshake was a brisk, lengthy one. Finally, Hawkeye had smoothed out her face enough to speak.

"Good to have you back, General." Mustang spoke the first thing that came to mind.

"It's good to be back." The surprising thing was it was the truth. Nodding at one another as they released hands, Mustang reached over to open the door. It opened slowly with a heavy groan, while the General strode into the grand room. It wasn't until he noticed that the seat he normally occupied was decorated with a blue, star-ridden banner did he finally understand. Hawkeye melted away before he could speak a word, and so pinned accusing eyes on the pale, thick members of the council. Sneaky bastards, jumping this on him.

They hadn't brought him back as a general. Oh no, they wanted him to sweep up the mess that had been plopped in their laps with his influence and reputation as a leader. You had to be careful who you said Fuhrer to these days, but they wanted him in a position of power, that much was certain. It didn't matter the title. They were dumping this whole mess on his shoulders.

And the real kicker was that he couldn't say no. He didn't know if he would if there was a choice, but Mustang was certain that he couldn't. Notorious for digging his heels in when being pushed, Mustang clenched his jaw against the instinct to drop a condescending little bomb and walk out of here, and keep going until he was back to the border. Any border would do this time; it didn't have to be Drachma.

But Mustang then saw Hawkeye materialize behind Kerry, one of the more level-headed members of the council. He had never seen such an expression on her face before. It was a sad mix of hope and pleading, and that much emotion on the woman's face was a monumental event. Mustang heaved a sigh, and trudged to his chair. Dropping with the weight of a stone—a man well aware of his fate—Mustang settled back, folding his hands on the table.

"Well, gentlemen. What is this about?"


End file.
